


It's Cold Outside

by Not_a_Hobbit (Blue_Blurr)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, No Sex, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Blurr/pseuds/Not_a_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock annoys John until he decides to leave the apartment in the middle of a snowstorm. John gets sick from the cold and Sherlock decides to take care of him, even if it means putting off cases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own BBC, its characters, or anything affiliated with the production of Sherlock. This is a fan-based work for which I receive no profits. The purpose of this work is solely for entertainment.
> 
> This can be seen as a pairing or just friendship.

     Sherlock Holmes had not had a case in several hours. At three in the morning after begging John to play Cluedo, he had already found and burnt through his emergency cigarettes, despite his flatmate’s best efforts. However they did not seem to be helping in the least bit. Sherlock had so far managed to keep himself occupied by annoying John (much to the latter’s displeasure). But the consulting detective was bored, and that was never a good thing.

     “John, can I have a cup of tea?” Sherlock moaned from the couch. An exasperated sigh answered him.

     “No, you’ve already had seven this morning.” Five minutes passed before additional questions and demands began floating from the figure on the couch.

     “Turn on the television.”

     “You have the remote, Sherlock.” John replied, now irritated. This did nothing to deter his flatmate, who began to ask questions without stopping.

     “Where’s my harpoon?”

     “I got rid of it because it scared Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock paused, intrigued.

     “How did you manage to get rid of a ridiculously long harpoon covered in blood without anybody noticing it?”

     “You are not the only one with connections.” A pout filled the face of the taller roommate; he liked being able to one-up his personal assistant.

     “If I cannot have my harpoon, then may I borrow your gun?”

     “There’s no way in hell I’m willfully letting you near a gun. Your aim is terrible and I never know what you are going to shoot at next. Mrs. Hudson will throw us both out if you shoot the wall again.”

     “Please?”

      “No!” The military doctor was more than angry at this point. He found himself silently willing Lestrade, or even Mycroft, to burst through the door at this ungodly hour with a case for his incessant flat mate.

     “John, play Cluedo with me!”

     “No Sherlock, we've already been through this!”

     “But why?” The taller man whined from his spot on the couch.

     “Because it is not possible for the victim to kill himself! There is no suicide in board games!” The blonde man practically screamed. He wondered for a moment if they had yet managed to wake the entire block with their argument.

     “No, the victim did kill himself John, I-” Sherlock was interrupted when the doctor suddenly (and very loudly) got up.

     “I’m leaving; don’t know when I’ll be back, _if_ I even come back.” He put on a jumper and walked out to the door.

     “But it’s cold outside! You’ll need a coat!”

     But the detective was only answered by the slamming of their front door. He sat alone listening as his private assistant’s footsteps faded away. When he could no longer hear John, he ran to the window to watch him cross the street, remaining there long after he was no longer visible. After an hour without any sign of his friend, the horrible wailing of his violin could be heard from apartment 221B.

     Mrs. Hudson dropped by much later to check up on him but when she saw his expression; she decided it was best to leave him alone. Despite his seemingly endless amount of knowledge, the detective was puzzled by his roommate and left wondering as to why he was so angry with him. Mycroft would know how to help him, so a text message was sent to his brother.

      _John is angry. He’s been out for hours now. What do I do?_ _–SH_

     Elsewhere Mycroft Holmes was at home enjoying a glass of fine wine, a holiday gift from DI Greg Lestrade. He sighed inwardly; his sociopathic little brother had never seemed to understand emotions and people, even as a child.

      _What did you do to anger him? –M_

    _I didn’t have any cases this morning. So I asked him to play Cluedo. –SH_

_You annoyed him all morning again didn’t you? –M_

     Mycroft waited for nearly ten minutes before getting a response, though he already knew what it was going to be.

    _Possibly. –SH_

_Go find him and apologize, my cameras say he should be near Chinatown. And do bring him a coat, it’s been snowing rather heavily today; he’ll need it soon. –M_

_Thanks. –SH_

     Sherlock managed to throw on his signature long coat, gloves, and scarf in less than a minute. In a flash he was at the door, John’s coat in hand. Thinking quickly, the detective part of him reasoned that despite having his coat back, John would still be cold, and something warm when he came back would probably help him.

     “Mrs. Hudson! I’ve gone to find John; can you have tea waiting for when we get back? Hopefully it will only be a few minutes!”

     “You know, I’m not your housemaid!” The elderly landlady replied, putting on a kettle despite herself.

     “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” (In an undisclosed location Mycroft Holmes choked on his glass of wine out of sheer surprise; Sherlock had thanked him.)

     And with that he was out in the street. He hailed a cab, half-amazed that one actually came. (They tended to avoid picking up people near 221b Baker Street after seeing him and John covered in blood, though not always their own, so many times.) It took less than five minutes to reach Chinatown. After paying the cabbie and telling him to wait, he ran out in search of John.

     The military doctor was found without much searching. He was starting to limp and his bad shoulder hung low. Sherlock grabbed his friend by his other shoulder and spun him around to face him. John had his fists raised, his intermittent tremor now clearly visible, but he lowered them when he saw it was his flat mate, and not a mugger.

     “Oh, what do you want?” he grumbled.

     “I brought your coat.”

     “I don’t want it, I’m not cold.” His lies were evident even without uncanny detective skills; John had snow on his head and shoulders and he was visibly shivering.

     “I know you’re lying. Please put your coat on before you catch a cold,”

     “I said I’m not cold!” John sneezed and went into a violent coughing fit.

     “See, you’re already sick, come on put your coat on and let’s get you home,” The taller man hated when he had to argue over obvious facts, especially so when it was with his flat mate.

     “I’m not g-” He collapsed, falling into Sherlock’s open arms.

     “John!” “I’m fine, I just tripped.” He said, instantly pushing away.

     “John Hamish Watson, you are not fine, you are sick. You will put your coat on and come back to the flat or so help me, I will carry you there myself!” Sherlock held out the coat and John reluctantly shrugged into it, with some help. Sherlock’s hawk-like eyes watched him carefully to make sure he buttoned it, making John feel slightly uncomfortable and very much like a child who had just been scolded by his mother.

     “Your shoulder has been bothering you,”

     “It’s because of the cold.” Snapped the smaller man, not wanting to remember the war. This was quickly noted, and the subject was dropped immediately.

     “Here,” Sherlock said, removing his scarf from his neck and tying it around John’s. The latter blushed slightly but then realized that the scarf he was now wearing was _the_ scarf Sherlock always wore, and began to protest.

     “But Sherlock,”

     “No, you need it now; you can give it back later.”

     “All right.” The smaller man sighed. The cab ride back was silent. Mrs. Hudson surprised John and Sherlock with tea as soon as they set foot through the door.

     “I’m glad you’ve come back John; Sherlock is a mess without you.”

     “Mrs. Hudson!” John gasped.

     “I am most certainly not a mess!” he detective shouted back. But Mrs. Hudson simply looked him in the eye.

     “Who else is there for you when I’ve taken you skull away?” She said with an uncharacteristically evil smirk. The tall Englishman angrily grumbled at the wall in defeat. John looked at the table, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

     Suddenly a bony hand ghosted over his forehead. His eyes followed the arm it was attached to back to its owner. Sherlock was checking his temperature from across the small table.

     “What are you doing?” He questioned. Mrs. Hudson had also now turned to look at the consulting detective.

     “Sherlock?”

     “John, you have a fever.”

     Despite numerous protests and death threats from his flat mate, Sherlock Holmes was determined to take care of his live-in assistant. The smaller man was forced into taking a shower, and warm pajamas were found and set out for him. The couch was cleared off, Union Jack pillow fluffed, and Sherlock made him lay down. He handed John a bowl of soup while gently placing an icepack on his head.

     “This probably isn’t even soup; it’s some experimental hallucinogen, or -”

     “No John, this time it’s actually tomato soup. If it makes you feel any better, Mrs. Hudson made it. Make sure to tell her you liked it when you see her in the morning.”

     John ate the soup without another word and lay down on their sofa. Sherlock went to the kitchen with the empty bowl and brought him back a new icepack, placing it on his brow and putting the used one back in their (now headless) freezer. He draped a warm blanket over John and turned away.

     “Sherlock,” the blonde muttered sleepily.

     “Yes John,” the consulting detective replied as he turned back, but the other man was already asleep. An uncharacteristically warm smile filled the sociopath’s face.

     “Sleep well, John.”

     The next morning John awoke on the couch. He looked around, trying to remember why he was there. Was he there because he spent all night on a case again? Did he fall asleep while watching the television in an attempt to quell his worry for his flat mate while he was off alone? Did Lestrade take him for drinks again and he had been too intoxicated to make it back to his room? No, none of those possibilities seemed likely. Then it came back to him; the arguing with Sherlock, the snow, the cab ride back home, and Sherlock taking care of him. Just then, the man in question strode into the room.

     “How are you, John? You were quite unwell yesterday.” He asked without a hint of worry in his voice. The blonde sat in confusion for a minute before speaking.

     “I am fine now, thanks. And, um, thank you for helping me last night too.” John immediately looked down, embarrassed. Sherlock stifled a smile.

     “I have no idea what you mean John; I went out and brought you home but it was Mrs. Hudson who took care of you. Perhaps you need more rest?” The blonde looked lost in thought. Sherlock was fighting to repress his laughter.

     “No, that was you! You helped me last night when I was sick!” John cried.

     “Please John, settle down. You’ll wake the neighbors.”

     “As if you care about neighbors, you acted like a decent human being last night, admit it!” John pointed an accusatory finger at Sherlock. But he began to feel weak. A yawn escaped the military doctor and he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open. Sherlock crossed the room and checked John’s temperature.

     “Your fever has gone down, but you still need rest, John. I can’t go around solving cases with my personal assistant if he starts falling asleep at crime scenes, now can I?” He said gently. John muttered some incoherent response and drifted off. Sherlock smiled softly and threw a blanket on top of his sleeping partner.

     Two hours later when Lestrade called, Sherlock was sitting in a recliner and watching over John as he slept.

     “There’s been a triple homicide. All three victims, who have no relationship with each other, were found sitting at a table playing cards. No sign of forced entry, no sign of a murder weapon, and Molly says the toxicity screenings are all negative. Your help would be appreciated.”

     “I’m sorry, but John’s sick so my hands are tied until he gets better.” He replied with a slight smile.

     Lestrade dropped his phone. Donovan and Anderson immediately questioned their commander, but were silenced with a “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on fanfiction.net, but since then I have edited it. I realize that it is very unlikely that someone can get that sick in only a few hours, but I made it so for the purpose of this story. I hope you enjoyed it and I thank you for taking the time to read it. I am unfamiliar with this website so I apologize if something came out wrong while publishing this fic.


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